At The Feet Of The Oath by Gabriel  

At The Feet Of The Oath

As the last rays of the winter sun disappeared below the horizon a group of refugees trickled into a clearing at the base of a thundering waterfall, looking cold, weary, and bereaved.

The last of them, a tall figure shrouded in a March-warden’s green cloak, turned back to peer through the trees, silent and watchful. In the fading light the warrior searched for any sign that their small band was being followed. His gaze darted to a sudden rustle in the undergrowth some distance away, his hand swiftly gripping the hilt of a dagger fastened at his thigh. A deer walked slowly into view, then bounded away. Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned to follow the others. Noticing he still wore his Feanorian signet ring he hurriedly tugged it off his finger, taking care to conceal his movements as best he could, and tucked it away in a pocket of his tunic.

Clutching his side and swallowing back a wave of nausea, he steered away from the Iathrim refugees near the base of the waterfall and slipped gingerly onto one of the many boulders strewn haphazardly around the floor of the ravine. Shrugging off his hood he glanced down at his bloodstained hand, grimacing as the wound beneath was exposed. With a halting breath he looked away, trying to compose himself. 

Curse you, Tyelko! he thought, with a flash of anger. But just as quickly as it had arisen the anger subsided, descending instead into grief.

“Traitor!” He recalled hearing his brother’s voice as Celegorm’s sword impaled him. 

“We had an agreement!” He heard himself roar back. 

He could see so clearly now what the oath had turned them all into. But really, what was he betraying? His father? His brothers? The oath?

They would forgive him. Eventually.